The Case of the Poisoner's Ring
by Biggles Mad
Summary: A little anecdote of life at Mount Street, set shortly after Biggles and the Black Peril. By HRH.


**The Case of the Poisoner's Ring**

Biggles woke with a start, waiting for a repetition of the sound that had disturbed him. The curtains stirred slightly as the draught of the pre-dawn breeze whistled through the narrow gap in the frame, but the flat was silent. He lay still, his nerves alert and at full stretch. With a sigh Biggles realised that he would have to get up to investigate or he would never settle back to sleep. He swung his legs out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown, feeling for his slippers with his bare feet.

As he tied the cord around his middle, he remembered Ginger's presence. The thought occurred to him that the child might have felt thirsty and gone to the kitchen to help himself to some milk. Smiling ruefully he opened the door to the boy's bedroom, expecting to find it empty, but Ginger was fast asleep, curled up on his side. Biggles closed the door gently so as not to wake the lad.

Frowning now, Biggles made his way to the sitting room. As soon as he entered, he knew that there was something wrong; the french windows to the balcony were wide open and the flimsy voile sun shades were billowing into the room. His lips compressed in a grim line. He distinctly remembered latching the doors to the balcony before retiring to bed the previous evening. Someone had broken in. He felt a surge of anger at having his home violated and strode across to the desk. Feeling in the right hand drawer, his fingers touched the cold metal of his service revolver. With a grimace of satisfaction, he checked it was loaded and the safety catch was on before he slipped the weapon into the pocket of his dressing gown.

A slight sound made him turn sharply, his hand going to his pocket. Algy stood in the doorway, yawning. He ran his fingers through his hair and regarded his cousin with disfavour.

"What on earth are you doing up at this time of the morning?" Algy wanted to know. "It's only just getting light. I thought it was Ginger plundering the kitchen."

Biggles pointed to the open windows and explained what had woken him.

"I was right," he concluded, "someone's been here but it looks as though they've gone now. We'd better have a look and see if they've taken anything."

Algy shuffled into the room and joined his cousin in the search, but as far as they could tell, nothing was missing.

"It's a rum do," opined Algy when they had finished. "Why break in if you're not going to steal anything?"

"Why indeed? They must have been disturbed by something before they could finish the job," murmured Biggles, latching the windows once more. "I must get a more secure lock on there," he observed as he gave the casement a shake. "I'll see about it in the morning."

"What's happened?" The unexpected query, voiced in a shrill treble, made Biggles spin round. Ginger stood at the door, barefoot and wearing an old, cast off dressing gown of Algy's over his pyjamas. The fact that the garment was far too big for him made him look even younger than he was. Biggles had momentarily forgotten about the boy and his response was sharp.

"What are you doing up?" he asked irritably. "You should be in bed."

Ginger looked hurt at the unwelcoming greeting but was not to be deflected. "What's happened?" he repeated doggedly.

Algy smiled at the lad's persistence and told him about the intruder.

Ginger's eyes widened. "Say," he drawled, much to Biggles' annoyance, "what do you think they were after?"

"We don't know," Biggles told him shortly, then continued with asperity, "and for goodness sake, stop that awful American twang!"

Ginger looked abashed. "Sorry," he murmured contritely, trying to sound as much like Biggles as possible.

Algy smiled and winked at him surreptitiously. "Come and help me make some tea, Ginger," he suggested, steering the boy towards the kitchen while Biggles made a final check of their living quarters.

"Don't take any notice, you know," Algy advised the youngster as he set the kettle on the stove. "His bark is worse than his bite."

Ginger blushed and flashed him a grateful smile, but before he could say anything, Algy continued, "how are you finding Brooklands?"

Ginger's face lit up. "Wizard!" he cried enthusiastically. "Captain Carthorne is smashing! He says I shall be able to go solo very soon!"

Algy smiled at his ebullience. "You know you won't be able to take your actual ticket until you're 16, don't you?" he reminded him.

Ginger's face clouded slightly. "I know," he murmured, "but I can keep flying until then, can't I?" he asked hopefully. "It won't be that many months now."

Algy took pity on the crestfallen waif and reassured him that there was no reason why he should not continue to build up his hours and flying experience until he was old enough for the formalities.

Ginger heaved a sigh of relief and took the cups and saucers out of the cupboard to arrange them on a tray. Algy watched him, thinking idly how much Ginger had learned in the short time since Biggles had effectively adopted him. He observed the lad's slim body, enveloped in the dressing gown that was two sizes too big for him, more closely, feeling sure Ginger had grown an inch or two taller. The lad had less problems reaching the crockery now. There was as yet no sign of Ginger's voice breaking but Algy felt it could not be long delayed.

He wondered when Biggles would have a talk with the youngster to explain the incipient changes to his body or whether it would be left to him to help the lad come to terms with leaving his childhood behind. Somehow Algy could not see Biggles shirking this task, no matter how little he might relish it; it was not in his nature to avoid responsibility. Indeed, he had been at considerable pains to set his guardianship of Ginger on a legal footing.

Algy mused that he might have to add a few embellishments if Ginger was to get the full picture. His cousin would probably stick to the bare facts, Algy reckoned, and leave it at that. Biggles had burned his fingers over a relationship once, reflected Algy. That tended to colour his attitude to the opposite sex. He smiled inwardly. Biggles had always said he, Algy, was better at handling women; no doubt he would be required to pass on some of his expertise to the youngster who was as yet blissfully unaware of such matters, or at least so Algy supposed.

The kettle started to sing and Ginger warmed the pot preparatory to making the tea.

The door opened and Biggles came in. "Isn't the tea ready yet, Ginger?" he asked with asperity. "What have you been playing at?"

Algy frowned. "It takes time for the kettle to boil, you know," he pointed out. "Ginger can't make water boil faster than the laws of nature!"

Biggles sat down heavily at the kitchen table and passed a hand wearily over his forehead. "I suppose I'm just annoyed at the thought of someone breaking in," he acknowledged.

"Well don't take it out on Ginger," Algy admonished him. "He's doing his level best to please you and nothing he does is right these days."

Biggles looked at the blushing youngster who was now pouring the tea into the cups. "I didn't mean to be sharp with you, laddie," he apologised. "It's not your fault."

Ginger's blush deepened as he put a cup of tea on the table in front of Biggles, smiling hesitantly.

Algy pulled out the chair next to him. "Come and sit down, Ginger, and drink your tea," he invited the lad, suddenly realising Ginger was beginning to experience some of the emotional turmoil that accompanies growing up. He thought back to his own feelings at that time and could empathise with the agony the lad must be going through. That Ginger was in the throes of a crush on his hero was plain for Algy to see now that the scales had dropped from his eyes, although he thought that Biggles, if not exactly unaware, was determined not to acknowledge the possibility. Algy thought back to the hero worship he had had for Biggles when he had joined him at the Front. Biggles had been sharp with him then, too, until he had earned his spurs, he recalled. Algy mused that he had at least been a man and physically grown up before he had joined the squadron. He felt that had made a difference and determined to do all he could to ease Ginger's awkwardness.

To spare Ginger's blushes Algy turned the conversation round to what they were going to do about the break in.

"I suppose I'll have to report it," muttered Biggles. "I'll go to the local station tomorrow - or rather, later today," he corrected himself. Then, as if to make up for his sharpness earlier, he said casually to Ginger, "you can come with me if you like."

Ginger looked surprised then flushed with pleasure. "Rather!" he said, in what he fondly believed was approved public schoolboy style.

Biggles noted the effort and nodded encouragingly. "Go and get dressed then," he told the lad in not unkindly tones. "We'll have some breakfast and go at about 8. Don't forget to wash!" he admonished the youngster as Ginger rose with alacrity and went to his room.

Algy hid a smile. "Being a parent doesn't come easy, does it?" he remarked.

Biggles glared at him. "It's alright for you. He treats you like an older brother. He puts me on some sort of pedestal. I find it very disconcerting."

"He'll get over it," murmured Algy wisely. "It's just a stage he's going through. We all had to grow up. Can't you remember what it was like?"

"Hmm, you're right," acknowledged Biggles reluctantly, unconsciously avoiding Algy's question. "He _is_ growing up."

On that thought, Biggles also rose and went to dress. As he put his dressing gown on the bed, the weight of the revolver in the pocket reminded him to put the weapon back in the desk drawer. He took the gun out and put it on the dressing table before finishing his ablutions, donning a dark grey suit and completing the ensemble with his RAF tie.

When Biggles came back into the sitting room, the revolver in his hand, Algy was sitting in an armchair reading the paper, waiting for breakfast to be served. He was still in his dressing gown. Biggles frowned at him pointedly but Algy studiously ignored his cousin. Before Biggles could make any remark, Ginger joined them.

"Are you going to shoot someone?" asked the lad, seeing the gun in Biggles' hand.

Biggles looked at the weapon. "I don't need it now," he admitted. "Put it back in the top right hand drawer of the desk, will you, Ginger?" he requested.

The boy took the gun and fired a few imaginary shots at the mirror, imagining himself to be Tom Mix who had temporarily taken over from his favourite gangster hero. Catching Biggles' eyes on him, he coloured and went straight to the desk. In his embarrassment, he pulled the drawer open too abruptly and the whole compartment slid out, shooting the contents onto the floor. Ginger stooped to pick them up. There were some papers and a slim, leather case which had jolted open to reveal a row of medals.

Reverently Ginger put the brightly coloured ribbons back into the case, his eyes shining. He looked up to find Biggles' eyes on him.

"Are these yours?" Ginger asked in awe.

"Yes," answered Biggles curtly. "Put them back."

"I didn't mean to drop them," apologised Ginger as he carefully put the box back in the drawer with the papers and the weapon that had been the cause of the discovery. "I mean, there's the MC in there," he added irrelevantly but with respect in his voice as he pushed the drawer back into the desk.

"There were plenty better men than I who never got a gong," Biggles told him shortly, his eyes bleak. "War isn't about shiny medals or marching gaily off to the Front, bands playing, or heroic deeds. It's sheer bloody waste. It's about straining your nerves and killing the other pilot before he kills you; about young lives cut off in their prime, or worse still maimed, and all for nothing." He looked at Ginger, remembering the young airmen, only a few years older than the lad who was staring at him wide eyed at the unexpected outburst, who had come out from England, inadequately trained, barely able to control the flimsy craft they were expected to fight in. "In combat, you're cold and you're frightened; there's no glamour in that. Just remember that, my lad!"

Ginger looked shocked by the vehemence of the monologue. Biggles' voice was harsh and then there was that admission about being frightened. He found it hard to believe that Biggles would be scared of anything.

"Go easy," cautioned Algy. "Ginger's young. He hasn't experienced anything like that."

"I hope he never does!" prayed Biggles fervently.

"Amen to that!" added Algy solemnly. "Let's have some breakfast."

"You're always thinking of your stomach," grumbled Biggles, but the sombre mood had been broken and the atmosphere was lightened.

Over breakfast Ginger was clearly bursting to ask Biggles about his medals, but the homily he had received made him hold his peace. Several times Algy saw the lad was about to frame some question and then thought better of it. He decided he would have a quiet talk alone with Ginger when the pair got back from the police station. The lad was obviously puzzled by Biggles' ambivalent attitude to his medals. Algy sighed inwardly. He was not sure he always understood Biggles completely himself - his cousin was a complex character - but he would do his best to help Ginger comprehend the man who had become his guardian. He could start by trying to help the boy appreciate a little of what it was like in the War and why Biggles, and indeed he himself, felt so ambivalent about decorations. He thought it would be difficult for Ginger to grasp as the boy had never experienced similar conditions. He recalled reading "_Memoirs of An Infantry Officer_" by Siegfried Sassoon. Like George Sherston, Algy believed that the man who had really endured the War at its worst was forever differentiated from everyone except his fellow soldiers.

When the last of the bacon and eggs had been consumed and all that was left of the toast and marmalade was a few crumbs and sticky smears on their plates, Biggles rose and beckoned Ginger to accompany him. Algy also stood before making his leisurely way to the bathroom for his morning ablutions.

Obediently, Ginger followed Biggles down the stairs and into a passing taxi that stopped for Biggles' hail. He sat leaning against the side of the vehicle, staring silently out of the window at the passing traffic, as if the physical distance from his mentor was an outward manifestation of his mental estrangement. Biggles was taciturn and disinclined to chat as if he had weighty matters on his mind. From time to time he glanced at the boy speculatively but remained silent.

When they arrived at the nearest police station, Biggles told Ginger to get out and wait while he paid the fare. The lad stood on the pavement, his hands in his pockets, idly jangling some loose change and secretly feeling like a million dollars. Such a short time ago, he had been literally penniless, homeless and in rags, being able to fly only a dream. Contrasting that state of affairs with his current situation, he could scarcely believe his luck.

Biggles joined him and Ginger took his hands out of his pockets guiltily. Together they went up the steps into the Victorian building and entered the lobby. Biggles strode over to the desk and spoke to the duty sergeant. Ginger lagged behind a little, looking at the posters on the walls.

A Constable came up to him. "What are you doing here, sonny?" he asked suspiciously at the sight of an unattended juvenile.

Biggles heard the query and turned. "He's with me, Constable," he affirmed, causing Ginger a warm glow of pride. "Come here, Ginger," he ordered briskly. "Stand beside me and don't wander off."

Ginger obeyed with alacrity, giving the policeman a cheeky grin as he went over to Biggles. "And you behave yourself, my lad!" Biggles reminded him smartly before continuing his conversation with the desk sergeant.

The formalities of reporting the break-in did not take long. The sergeant mentioned that several flats in the area had been subjected to burglary or attempted burglary. "Sooner or later they'll slip up and get caught," he concluded. "They'll get too clever and go to the well too often. We nearly caught them this time. They were spotted on the balcony of a flat breaking in - that must have been yours, sir. Unfortunately they made off before the constable could arrest them but it's only a matter of time."

Biggles thought sourly that he was not prepared to wait. As he left the police station, with Ginger at his side, he began to formulate a plan to encourage the gang to over reach itself.

"I think we'll walk back," he told Ginger. "It's quite fine and I want to think."

Ginger nodded, concentrating on keeping up as Biggles strode along, deep in thought.

By the time they had reached Mount Street, Ginger was slightly breathless and Biggles had made up his mind about his plan of action. When the pair entered the flat, Algy was dressed and listening to the radio.

"Turn that off a minute, Algy," his cousin told him. "I want to talk to you. You, too, Ginger," he added as the boy was about to head for his bedroom to change his jacket.

Expectantly, Ginger sat down and crossed his legs in imitation of Algy's nonchalant pose.

When the room was quiet, Biggles told his partner what he had learned from the duty sergeant. "I don't like the idea of hanging around waiting and hoping that the crooks will make some mistake," he concluded. "I think we can encourage them to put their necks in a noose."

He looked at Algy. "You remember that ring you bought in South America - the one with the compartment in it?"

Algy nodded. "Very pretty but not very valuable," he confirmed. "The chap who sold it to me said it was a poisoner's ring. It's only a cheap copy but it looks very impressive."

Ginger's eyes lit up. "A poisoner's ring!" he exclaimed. "What's that?"

"Back in mediaeval and even Renaissance times if you wanted to get rid of your enemies, you invited them to have a drink with you," Biggles informed him briefly. "As you passed over the goblet to your intended victim, you opened the ring and the poison dropped out of the compartment into the wine."

Ginger looked horrified. "What a dreadful thing to do!" he exclaimed innocently.

Biggles nodded and continued, "I think we are going to discover a very important map tucked inside that ring of yours, Algy. A map that will lead to a hoard of gold and jewels the like of which has not been seen since Lord Carnarvon discovered that Egyptian Pharaoh - Tutan something or other."

"Tutankhamen," supplied Algy distractedly.

"That's the one," acknowledged Biggles.

"But you'll never get a map in a ring!" protested Ginger.

"This is no ordinary ring," Biggles assured him. "It's a whopper. The Venetians were all for show. Even the relatively poor liked to wear flashy clothes and lots of jewels although they had to hire them or get them second or third hand."

"They must be crazy!" opined Ginger.

Biggles disregarded his comment on the Venetian obsession with fashion. "Of course," he went on, warming to his theme, "such an important find will have to make the papers."

Algy groaned, but Biggles ignored him. "We, being agog with the wonder of it all, will tell everyone how we are going to follow it up but because the map is so precious, we shall be leaving it behind and taking a copy when we go. I don't think anyone could resist that sort of bait."

"You'll probably get half the thieves in London after it," muttered Algy. "And what will my Guv'nor say? You know the stink he kicked up about our being in the papers before."

"It's all in a good cause," Biggles assured him. "You don't want them to get away with breaking in and plundering the neighbourhood, do you?"

Reluctantly Algy shook his head. "Of course not," he confirmed.

"Good, that's settled then," concluded Biggles. "I'll see about getting the story in the papers as soon as we've had a cup of tea. Put the kettle on, Ginger," he told the lad who had listened to the whole affair enthralled.

When the boy had gone to make the tea, Algy got up and rummaged in the chest of drawers. It took him some time and for a while he was worried that the thieves might have already taken it, but eventually he found the ring that was to help bait the trap. The compartment was not as large as he had remembered, although the ring was substantial, but he thought it would be big enough. He wondered if they might have difficulty concocting a map that would look sufficiently realistic for their purpose. He handed the jewellery over to Biggles just as Ginger brought in a tray with the tea things.

Biggles took a small sheet of good quality paper from his desk and made a few jottings and a plan on it. He tore the edges roughly and then poured some tea in his saucer. Ginger watched him curiously. Surely, he thought, Biggles wasn't going to drink tea out of a saucer. Toffs didn't do that sort of thing, he had learned that much.

Under Ginger's puzzled scrutiny, Biggles soaked the fragment in the liquid. The paper discoloured and took on an appearance of age. Biggles completed the process by crumpling it up while it was still wet then laying it on the window ledge to dry. He smiled at Ginger. "Hey presto!" he told the lad with the air of a conjurer. "One ancient treasure map."

Ginger gasped. "It looks so real!" he exclaimed, looking at the scrap of paper that was drying on the sill.

"Let's hope the crooks think so," declared Biggles.

"Will it fit in the ring?" Ginger wanted to know.

"Well they managed to put messages round carrier pigeon's legs during the War," observed Biggles. "I should think we'll be able to do it."

When the map was dry, he folded it neatly. With a little bit of fiddling, he made it compact enough to stow in the compartment of the ring and fitted the hinged lid back into its setting.

"Now we'll let them know where to find it," he added reaching for the telephone. It was the work of a moment to contact a newspaper and get them to send a reporter. There was a dearth of news and the editor was keen to get an exclusive. Biggles' name added cachet to the story as his exploits in South America had previously reached the press, the cause of Algy's discomfort since his father disliked publicity in any way, shape or form.

When the reporter arrived with the photographer that Biggles had suggested, Biggles had his story prepared. He showed the ring, and allowed the pressmen a brief glimpse of the map - just enough to make it look authentic, Ginger thought, watching avidly - assuring them that the treasure hoard, the existence of which had been confirmed by a reliable source who had unfortunately since died of a tropical disease, was of national importance. The reporter took all the details and photographs were taken of the ring and the three of them looking at the map, which Biggles was careful to shield from the camera.

"Well," remarked Biggles when their guests had departed. "It shouldn't take too long after the story appears. I made a big thing about our leaving the day after tomorrow so any time after that we can expect a visit."

"And I can expect a phone call from my Guv'nor," concluded Algy gloomily.

Biggles grinned. "I'll tell him you're out," he promised.

The newspaper carried the story the following day. Algy was horrified to see that in the absence of anything better it made front page headlines. He had barely digested this fact when the telephone bell shrilled. Biggles got up to answer it. He had scarcely had time to announce the number when he held the ear piece away from his ear. Algy could hear the squawking from where he sat and recognised his father's voice. He made frantic signals to his cousin to indicate he was miles away. When the irate Earl paused for breath Biggles greeted him. "I'm sorry, Uncle Clarence, this is James," he announced. "Algy is not here at the moment."

The squawking recommenced with renewed vigour as Algy heaved a sigh of relief. "Yes, yes, I'll tell him," Biggles promised in a momentary pause. Eventually the Earl ran out of steam and Biggles was able to conclude the conversation. "I'll make sure he gets your message," was his final communication. "Goodbye, Uncle Clarence."

Ginger could hear the slam of the receiver through the ear piece, even though he was sitting at some distance from the instrument. He looked at Algy ruefully. "Your dad didn't seem very pleased," he remarked, correctly inferring the identity of the caller. "Is he going to give you a belting?"

Algy thought that "not very pleased" was the understatement of the century, but the thought of his father beating him made him smile. He shook his head. "The Guv'nor is all sound and fury," he admitted. "He'll fulminate for a day or two, maybe think about cutting me out of his will, then he'll forget all about it - until the next time."

Biggles set about laying the trap with meticulous precision. Valises were packed and sent out to Croydon in case the flat was being watched. At the time that they had appointed for departure they all trooped out into a taxi which Biggles, having given the address of the airport, stopped as soon as they were out of sight a few streets away, telling the driver that he had changed his mind and would leave later.

The three comrades returned to the flat unnoticed by the service entrance and settled down to see who, if anyone, would turn up.

The vigil turned out to be boring and uneventful. Unable to turn on the light or close the curtains which would have disclosed their presence they whiled away the long hours as best they could. Biggles had allotted each of them a room to guard, which made the process even more unpleasant by its loneliness. Eventually their patience was rewarded. Biggles, who was in the sitting room, saw a dim shadow on the balcony. His lips compressed as he watched the intruder working at the lock of the french windows, which he had not yet had reinforced. He felt in his pocket for the revolver and gripped it reassuringly.

He made his way silently across to the bedroom where Algy was in wait to warn him. As he reached the door and hissed for Algy to join him, the french windows opened with a distinct crack. Nothing happened as the burglar waited to see if the noise had attracted any attention. When the flat remained quiet, the doors opened and a slim figure stepped into the room. Moments later he was joined by a second, stockier man. The two advanced to the desk where they paused to confer in low tones.

The slimmer man opened the drawers of the desk and began to search with the aid of a shaded flashlight while his companion made his way over to the chest of drawers. Almost immediately, because Biggles had made sure it was easily accessible, he found what he was looking for in the central drawer of the desk.

The intruder called his companion in a low voice and Biggles got a shock, for the interloper spoke in German. With their objective achieved, they obviously felt they should do some opportunist work because they continued to ransack the desk and chest of drawers. Biggles had had enough of watching his property despoiled and worked his way round to the door to the hall. When one of the burglars took out the leather case and was about to slip it into his pocket, Biggles switched on the light. The sudden glare made everyone blink.

"_Hande hoch_!" barked Biggles peremptorily, covering them with his service revolver.

The thieves reacted with commendable presence of mind. The one with Biggles' medals in his hand threw the case at their owner while the other made a dash for the balcony, only to find Algy barring his way armed with a pistol.

The case hit Biggles' gun hand and the revolver went off, making a gouge in the wall by the bookcase.

Two things happened simultaneously. The intruder who had thrown the missile ran towards the door to the hall and Ginger raced out of the kitchen where he had been watching the service entrance. Biggles could not get a shot at the escaping crook for fear of hitting Ginger who was in the line of fire.

Ginger summed up the situation instantly and despite his considerable weight disadvantage tackled the crook without hesitation.

He was flung off almost immediately but the delay was sufficient for Biggles to get in a position where he could cover the burglar without risk to Ginger.

Sullenly the thieves glared at their captors. Biggles herded them together in the sitting room and called the police. Ginger, unnoticed, picked up the fallen medals and restored them carefully to their case, smoothing the ribbons reverently. He looked hesitantly at Biggles, but his mentor was intent on the captives. Without drawing attention to himself he went across to the desk and slid the drawer open. He could not resist a last, lingering look at the glittering rewards for valour before he latched the case securely and put them safely back in their resting place. That done, he went quietly over to stand behind Biggles. Glancing across, he saw Algy looking at him but there was no censure in his gaze, only understanding.

While he was waiting for the officials to arrive Biggles tried to interrogate his captives, but all he got was name, rank and serial number, which surprised him considerably.

"The war is long over," he told the men sadly, wondering at the bitterness that made them assume this attitude, especially as they were not in uniform.

"Until the Fatherland is free from the oppression of the reparations the war will never be over," the younger of the two men told him passionately, stung by Biggles' tone which he mistook for pity. "The day will come when we shall have our rightful position restored."

"Yes," added his companion who decided to break his self imposed silence to give voice to his hatred. "The Allies have forced this on our country, but we shall show them."

Biggles felt his heart sink. He had heard rumours of a resurgence of militarism in Germany and here he seemed to have his worst fears confirmed. "We didn't want to fight," he told the men. "Nobody in his right mind wants a war."

The younger man looked at him curiously. "You were a pilot," he exclaimed. "You fought with honour," he observed, looking at the silver framed photograph of Biggles standing in front of his Sopwith Camel, wearing his RFC uniform with the purple and white ribbon of the MC on the left breast of his maternity jacket, that stood on the mantelpiece. "I was a _Kriegsmariner_," he continued. "I served in our _Unterseebooten_. You must understand," he argued with almost revolutionary zeal, "we want to be able to hold our heads up high again. We only want what is ours by right. Honour and respect. You have ground our faces in the dust. Because of the harsh terms of the reparations, we are seeing the National Socialist Party taking over. They say they will restore our position, but they are just bullies in uniform," he added bitterly.

Biggles looked at the intruder sympathetically. Seen in the light his face was badly scarred on the right cheek. It seemed that he had no enthusiasm for the rise of militarism in Germany after all, mused Biggles revising his original opinion.

"And you decided that stealing was a way to get funds?" queried Algy incredulously. "What sort of honour and respect is that? You should have got a job like thousands of other ex-servicemen on both sides."

"There are no jobs to be had in Germany unless you are a Party member," protested the young ex-submariner. "My wife and I are Jewish. You have no idea how difficult that makes life for us at home. To work at all I must go abroad and there is very little I can do. Stealing from the rich is all that is left to us to support our families. There is no compensation for war injuries." He ran his hand absently over the scar tissue on his face.

Biggles regarded him steadily. "I'm sorry," he said gently, "but this is no way to carry on. It's fatal to let yourself get obsessed with revenge. Once you get a bee in your bonnet it can take over and ruin your life."

The former U-boat sailor returned to his theme with renewed passion. "The Allies are stealing the bread from the mouths of our children!" he cried. "The cost of the reparations is crippling us. We don't have enough to live. You with your expensive Mayfair apartment and plenty of money - how could you possibly understand?"

Algy shook his head in disbelief and opened his mouth to remonstrate, but whatever he was going to say was cut off by the arrival of the police. Ginger, feeling left out of the conversation, which had partly been carried on in German, hurried to let them in.

When the Germans had been taken into custody, Biggles heaved a sigh of relief. "Well, that was a turn up for the book," he observed. "I think I had better have a word with the Air Ministry about this little episode, nonetheless," he continued. "I'm sure they would be interested to know what is going on."

"So should I," observed Ginger. "I don't speak German." His voice unexpectedly changed register half way through the sentence, much to his consternation.

Algy and Biggles exchanged glances. "I think you owe Ginger an explanation," remarked Algy with the hint of a smile. "I'll leave you to tell him all about it."


End file.
